


Forgive Me if I Wander Off (forgive me more if I just stay)

by no_big_deal



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hux lies back and lets Rose take the train to pound town, Naked Female Clothed Male, No Babies, No Pregnancy, Reunited and It Feels So Good, The Lord of the Rings References, Woman on Top, long lost lovers, reference to involuntary intoxication, reference to mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26604382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_big_deal/pseuds/no_big_deal
Summary: Five years have passed since  Armitage Hux suddenly vanished out of Rose Tico’s life, ending their short but passionate love affair. Now he’s living a quiet existence in New York City when he sees her standing outside a church, in a wedding dress, hand in hand with her groom--is he too late to change their fate? Or will he find a way back into the arms of the only woman he's ever loved?
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico
Comments: 16
Kudos: 53





	Forgive Me if I Wander Off (forgive me more if I just stay)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about when @ardentlyloveyou [retweeted](https://twitter.com/ardentlyloveyou/status/1306290744265768961?s=19) @dianalmiller8's tweet showing nicely aligned pics of KMT and DG on her timeline. I immediately crafted an angst ridden reply with a distraught wedding-dress wearing Rose and a somehow even more distraught Hux in a hoodie. 
> 
> But I couldn't just leave them there, of course.
> 
> Please Note: There are a few images embedded in the text so scroll slowly! Happy reading!

Saturday morning is when Hux likes to walk down the block for some coffee and pick up whatever essentials he needs. Milk for Millie, maybe bread and eggs for him. His route takes him by the best little coffee shop in the Village, a neighborhood park, an Episcopal cathedral, and finally, his favorite little bodega, where he does his shopping.

This Saturday is no different. One triple shot latte in hand, he meanders through the park enjoying the late summer sunshine, listening to the laughter of kids playing on the green, thinking about nothing in particular. It's nice to get out, do some people watching, and feel like part of the human world again. It's been awhile since he's had friends living close by. And it's almost a cliche to be lonely living in New York, but somehow that's exactly where he finds himself.

He slows as he approaches the church, a limo having just pulled up, a photographer at the ready. Hanging back so he doesn't interfere with the pictures, he takes a big sip of his coffee. Hopefully it will mask the grimace he can feel appearing on his face, the same grimace that appears every time he's forced to think about romance, love, happy couples. No one should have to see his cynical, jaded face on what should be the happiest day of their lives.

A handsome black man in a sharp tux hops out of the limousine, instantly turning back to the open door with a huge grin on his face, hands extended to help the bride. A white puff of tulle billows gently as the breeze picks up her veil. Pushing it back, she smiles up at the groom and Hux goes very still.

 _She's happy,_ he thinks.

She's halfway to the cathedral steps when she sees him. And suddenly, she doesn't look happy. Not anymore.

Covering his mouth with his hand—his hand now empty since he's dropped the latte on the sidewalk—he takes a step backwards. Rose only hesitates a second, a sudden bobble on her feet _must be those white heels,_ he thinks, _she never did like wearing heels,_ before righting herself.

But the look on her face speaks volumes. Her confusion, her pain. Her sad dark eyes all reminders of the worst mistake he ever made.

God, he hates it here.

*~*~*~*~*

He looks different, she thinks. But of course he does, he's five years older. It would be strange if he didn't look at least a little different. She expected _older,_ she realizes with a pang. What she didn't expect was that he'd look— 

Sadder.

She steps to the window, away from all the chattering going on in the room and sees that he's still standing there, looking down at his spilled coffee, a light tan streak across the dark grey sidewalk. She clenches her fists, suddenly overwhelmed with anger. How dare he show up here. How could he show his face after all these years? When she had finally moved on? After time—so much time—had healed her broken heart, or so she thought. 

But he looked _shocked,_ the part of her brain still clinging to rationality supplies. He was wearing a zip up hoodie and carrying a to-go coffee cup. He wasn't there for her. He hadn't planned on seeing her.

He was there by accident.

 _So it was fate,_ suggests the part of her brain that gleefully abandoned rationality anytime Armitage Hux was involved. The part of her brain that had never stopped loving him, never stopped thinking about him, never stopped wondering what had happened and why he had left and....

He bent over to pick up the coffee cup. Panicked that he'd leave, Rose turns and runs from the room, heading back down to the street. 

She was outside again in a moment and Armitage—fuck, it felt good to allow herself to think his name again— _Armitage_ was resting against a lightpole, his back to the church, his coffee cup sitting atop a full trash receptacle. So he didn't see her coming. He didn't know she was there.

Just like he hadn't seen her all those years ago, across the hotel lobby. When she'd seen him leaving with a well-dressed woman, his head on her shoulder, her hand possessively stroking his arms and patting his chest.

All those years ago, when he'd left her, without a word. Never to be heard from again.

The memories come back in a rush of images. 

> Her junior year of undergrad, her semester abroad studying art history and making all the important stops -- London, Paris, Rome.
> 
> He'd been working at the Museum of Modern Art in London and she'd signed up for a tour. She attributed the fact that she couldn't take his eyes off of him to the fact that _he's the tour guide, Rey, I'm supposed to be watching him._
> 
> But it was more than that, and she knew it.
> 
> When the tour ended he hung around, in the periphery of her vision, hovering, watching her. She signed up for the tour again.
> 
> When his shift ended, she was the one hanging around, loitering, waiting.
> 
> They were inseparable the rest of her trip.
> 
> He took her on a day trip to Cornwall and kissed her for the first time on the turrets of a castle overlooking the wildest ocean Rose had ever seen, the roaring of the waves echoing her heart's ferocious desire.
> 
> When she was scheduled to leave London for Paris, he went with her.
> 
> She snuck him into her hotel room and as the Parisian skies drizzled down she wrapped him in her sheets and marked his body with hers and prayed to all the gods in the pantheon that this was it, that this was forever.
> 
> It must be. She told him every secret, every dream, every fear. She held nothing back.
> 
> So to see him that one morning, leaving their hotel in Rome, in the arms of a tall, elegant woman... it hadn't made any sense.
> 
> When a day went by with no contact, she stifled her panic. But after two days, she took action—the only one she could—she called the museum in London. She was told he no longer worked there and no, there was no forwarding information. He was gone, _poof,_ a ghost, like he'd never been there at all.
> 
> Except her heart and her body knew he'd been there, she had proof, she had marks, she had feelings—god she had _feelings—_ that proved he'd been there, he'd been real.
> 
> Rose returned home to the States, devastated and heartbroken and she never hears from Armitage Hux, not once, not ever, for the next five years.

So now she's standing behind him full of conflicting emotions but everything leads back to the enormity of his betrayal. He _left_ her. Why is she out here? Why are her hands trembling as she watches him? Why are his shoulders shaking as he leans against the light post? Why does a gasp escape her lips when she realizes he's _sobbing?_

At her slight sound, he spins. Seeing her there, so close, his eyes go wide, his hand once again covering his mouth.

"Armitage?" she asks. "Is that you?"

*~*~*~*~*

He doesn't know how much of this he can take, he really doesn't. He knows they say life is unfair, but just how unfair is it supposed to be?

If he'd slept in for five more minutes. If he'd taken the opportunity to finish reading that magazine article at the coffee shop. If he wasn't such a slave to his ridiculous routine, he might not ever have seen her and she'd be happily marrying someone else—someone who deserved her, probably.

And he wouldn't be standing here on a public street, gazing at the love of his life, desperately sad and regretful.

"They took me away," he croaks. He has never imagined what he would say if he saw her again. "I was convinced I shouldn't try to find you."

She shakes her head, stepping back, lips tight. "I can't do this." Her voice is weak, trembling, breaking. "I thought I could, but I can't." She takes another step back.

He nods. He _understands._ "It's okay, Rose. Please. Go on. Back to the church. Have a great life, okay?" He fills his words with as much sincerity as he can. His heart broke long ago, this can't possibly make it worse. "You look—" he says, before he can help himself.

"Please don't."

"All right." He nods, slowly. "Goodbye, Rose."

But she doesn't turn and doesn't move.

He looks down, wipes his eyes. Maybe she's waiting for him to leave first. If that's what she wants, he'll do it. His feet are refusing to move but they will in a moment and then he'll walk away. He will. Because she wants him to.

So he turns and risks a last glance. Her face is raised to the sky; she’s shaking her head and her fists are swinging at her sides. She makes a sharp noise of frustration and stomps her foot. 

He needs to go. So he starts to walk. At the corner, he goes left, heading back to the apartment and his mind, his deluded, tired brain is imagining her walking beside him. It's going to take a long time to get over today, he thinks. He's exhausted.

He heavily jogs up the steps at his building and the shh-shh-shh of her dress against the steps surprises him. He usually tries not to imagine her in such overwhelming detail. It's tough enough in the broad outlines; the merest memory, the most general thought, is crushing. So the sound of the wedding dress that she's wearing not for him against his steps leading up to his apartment is just too much— 

Too much _input,_ too much to process, too much for anyone to handle, much less a man whose coping mechanisms abandoned him long ago.

On the staircase, he turns to look at her. "You usually look happier," he says.

"I do?"

He chuckles, a wry, dry sound. "But you sound like a bride."

"What?" her face twists in confusion.

"When I imagine you. With me. You look happier." He looks down. "Not sure why I think that." His lips twist as the self-loathing rises in his gut. "There's no reason for me to think that."

"Armitage," imaginary Rose says. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

He rolls his eyes. "Can't have me talking to myself in public, can we?" 

A few more steps and he opens the door to the apartment and is surprised when the door doesn't bang closed behind him like it usually does when he lets it go. She's standing there, holding it, looking annoyed.

"You had better manners, back then," she says primly.

"Everything was better back then," he retorts.

He walks to the kitchen, out of habit. He doesn't have his groceries. He doesn't have his coffee. All he has is the knowledge that a few blocks away, Rose is marrying someone else and he absolutely will be alone forever.

He hears Millie's purr from across the flat, her deep rumble carrying through the silence and he follows the sound out of habit. Millie's on the couch, on Rose's lap, her orange throat up as Rose's nimble little fingers scritch at the underside of the sleek feline jaw.

"She's great, what's her name?"

Hux sighs. This really is enough. Too much, actually. He walks back to the bedroom and flops down on the bed.

He must doze off, he thinks. Because the next thing he knows he's dreaming. Rose in her wedding dress lying on the bed next to him. Rose in her wedding dress, stroking his cheek with her soft little hand.

"This is a dream," he says, rolling towards her. In his dreams she's not married.

"Then it is a good dream," she says, and she kisses him.

And with a jolt he realizes this isn't a dream at all.

Rose pulls back. "We need to talk."

She leads him out to the living room and he sits on the couch while she stands by the window. He's glad. She's real and she's not his and the bed is too tempting when he's so utterly weak for her.

*~*~*~*~*

Hux smiles ruefully, looking down at Millie, who's rubbing herself against his legs. "I was a fool. I've never regretted something so much." He looks back up at her. "But we need to get you back to the church," he says, doing his best to project a confidence he does not feel. 

"What? No—" she begins.

"Please, Rose," he interrupts. "I'm happy for you. That you've moved on with your life. You deserve so much happiness and that man—" Hux swallows, forcing down his emotions, unable to speak specific words that refer to Rose's _groom,_ or _fiance._ "He appeared to be a true gentleman." 

"Just a few questions," Rose says, her eyes narrowing as she crosses her arms.

He nods. Of course he can't deny her. 

"Are you… seeing anyone?" The words rush out of her as if she's afraid of his answer. 

"No," he says, unable to take his eyes off her. "There's been no one..."

She clears her throat. "Okay." She steps closer to him, takes her hands and puts them on his shoulders, her thumbs flirting with the seam of his collar, so close to touching his skin. 

From this vantage point he's looking directly at the sweetheart neckline of her sequined white bodice, the beautiful golden skin of her décolletage warm and inviting and he closes his eyes against the sweet torture of it, the overwhelming desire battering at his sense of honor. 

She just doesn't realize how devastating she is, he thinks. 

"When," she begins, her fingers twitching against his neck. "When did you stop loving me?"

Eyes flying open, he rears his head back to look up at her. She's biting her lip, blinking madly, looking out the window, and he releases a breath in a gasp; it's like she punched him right in the gut.

"Rose, _never,"_ he growls, his hands moving of their own accord to bracket her waist. He shakes her, one quick shake to get her attention and she looks down at him, eyes wide.

His tone is rougher than he intends. "Forgive me," he says, not sounding at all sorry. He stands and looks down at her, her hands sliding from his neck to his chest. "But I will not lie to spare your feelings." His fingers tighten painfully around her waist; he _must_ make her understand. "I never stopped loving you, Rose. How could I? Now _please_ leave, before it's too late for your wedding to take place. I will not be the cause of—"

"Will you _shut up_ about a wedding," she interrupts, yelling, "there's not going to be a wedding—" 

"Don't _say that,"_ he roars, jostling her again, as she steps further into his arms, her body now flush with his. "Don't say that, please." His voice breaks, goes soft. "Be happy. The way you'd planned. I can't be what stands between you and _any_ happiness." He closes his eyes as her hands reach up and her fingers stroke his cheeks. 

They stand there like that for a moment, in silence. Her hands on his face, his hands wrapped around her forearms. His thumbs brush against the inside of her wrists, moving of their own volition as he takes a deep breath and just _feels_ her for the last time.

"Okay," she says. "But I have one favor to ask." His lashes flutter open as she steps back.

He lets her go. "Anything," he says, before he can think better of it. 

"Come back to the church with me."

He nods, stoic. "It would be an honor to escort you," he manages, and offers her his arm.

*~*~*~*~*

The church is very empty, only a few people standing around the pulpit, including a man in purple vestments and the man he recognizes as Rose's groom. A bridesmaid and the best man are chatting over on one side of the dais.

"Did everyone leave already?" Hux asks, hanging behind Rose as she makes her way up the aisle. 

"Nope, everyone's here," she mutters before calling, "Hi Rey, sorry I ran off—"

"No worries," Rey calls back. "I was having some technical difficulties with the Nikon, but I just got it sorted. You ready to go?"

"Yep," Rose chirps cheerfully. She turns to Hux. "Sit down, just wait here, okay?"

She leaves before he can respond, climbing the steps to stand in front of the pulpit. The bridesmaid, a petite woman with a crown braid woven with flowers, hands Rose a bouquet and Rey is there, snapping pictures. 

Rose, truly a vision, turns towards Rey with a smile and Rey snaps some more. An exceptionally tall man with wavy black hair and two cameras slung over his neck trails behind Rey, a large reflector disk in hand. He angles the sunlight coming through the church windows up at the wedding party and they _glow._

"Now Luke," Rey says to the man in the vestments, "hold up the bible and look like you're reading—Rose and Finn—you both look at him."

 _Finn,_ Hux thinks, _the lucky bastard's name is Finn._ He wished he didn't know. He can imagine how _Finn_ sounds on Rose's lips, breathy, needy… he clenches his fists together and hopes they can't hear him grinding his teeth from five pews back. 

"Now let's do rings, huh?" Rey points to the bouquet and Rose turns and hands it to the bridesmaid. "Perfect, looking good Kaydel," Rey sing-songs as the bridesmaid readjusts to hold the bouquet. 

Stepping between Rose and Finn, Rey's camera is right on top of their hands, blocking Hux's view, but the sound of her shutter is clicking and whirring non-stop.

"Okay," Rey says, pulling a scrap of paper out of her pocket. "All that's left is down the aisle." She backs up, coming to stand near Hux. She squats and points her camera at the couple. "Big smiles everyone," she says brightly. 

Hux forces himself to watch as Finn leans forward and kisses Rose. Fortunately, Finn appears to be a man of tact and discretion; the kiss is a simple press of closed lips that lasts not longer than three seconds before they're turning and walking down the aisle hand in hand. 

They stop when Rey stands, nodding. 

"Did you get what you need?" Finn asks her.

"You bet, Peanut." Rey appears pleased and leans in to give the man a hug. "Thanks so much everyone," she calls as the bridesmaid, best man, and pastor all walk down the stairs. "These shots are just what I needed for my portfolio. Thanks for playing dress up for me—"

She cuts off as Hux lurches to his feet, rattling the pew, a deep scraping noise of wood on the stone floor.

"Hey there, man, you alright?" Finn is the one speaking, but they're all looking at him with various levels of concern. 

But Hux is _speechless._

*~*~*~*~*

Rose takes him by the hand and, grabbing a large duffel bag and purse from the last pew, marches him back down the street towards his apartment.

She drags him up the stairs to his door and motions for him to unlock it, which he does. Once inside, she heads straight into his bathroom and closes the door.

He stares blankly at Millie. 

But the cat has no answers. 

*~*~*~*~*

A few minutes later Hux hears his shower start up and the surge of arousal that comes from an unstoppable mental vision of Rose, glistening wet and naked has him doubling over, hands on his knees, breathing deep. 

_She's not married,_ he reminds himself. 

He dashes to the kitchen to put on the kettle, at the very least he can offer her some tea when she's out of the shower. He's pulling a matching set of seldom used mugs down from a top shelf when he realizes he's stress-sweated through the old t-shirt he'd thrown on that morning. He quickly uses it to wipe himself down before he reapplies some deodorant, adds a drop of the Tom Ford, and pulls on his lucky racing green henley. 

Mere minutes later, a fresh-faced Rose steps into his living room, wearing a soft looking sweater and yoga pants that Hux is convinced are his one way ticket to everlasting fire in the afterlife. 

He hands her the mug of tea, the steam flowing this way and that as she inhales, pursing her lips to blow on the liquid's surface and Hux physically cannot look away. 

"So," he begins. "Rey's a photographer now?"

She sets down the mug. "No," she snaps. "We're not going to do _this,"_ she gestures between them. "We're not going to do the polite small talk thing, Armitage. I want _answers."_

"Of course," he nods. "Please, ask anything."

There's a fraught moment where it looks as if she's gathering up her courage. 

“Why?” she asks, simply. "I thought—we had dreams, plans, we were in—" she stops, squeezing her lips tight. "You said there wasn't anyone else. So, why?"

He shakes his head. "When we were in Rome, my father... died. My step-mother came for me. She assumed I'd be distraught so she preemptively laced my coffee with a sedative. Next thing I knew I was back in London, you weren't at the hotel in Rome when I called, and with the funeral... all the obligations, I didn't—" He took a deep breath. "I was not thinking clearly. I convinced myself you'd never want to hear from me again, since I'd left without a word."

She covers her mouth with her hand. "But that's _awful,"_ she nearly shouts. "Drugged and—that's not _normal—_ Armitage, tell me you know that's not normal."

Shrugging, he crosses the room and pulls a black wooden box from a low shelf. Looking at it for a moment, he hands it to her and sits back down.

"It's not common, no. But where I come from, it's not unheard of." 

"Where you _come from?"_ Rose scrunches up her face and raises the lid on the box. _This is it,_ he thinks. _The point of no return._

Hux knows what she’s seeing—that at first, the box appears full of childhood memorabilia. A birth announcement, some pictures, primary school records, and the like.

It’s obvious when Rose notices the birth announcement—undoubtedly one of the most formal she’ll have ever seen. She holds it up to the light, the look on her face admiring. Gold leaf glitters around a coat of arms. Her face falls when she begins to read:

She brings her free hand up to the side of her face as she lifts the next paper, a simple piece of parchment, a busy red emblem centered at the top. Hux’s gut is churning as she reads it aloud with a shaking voice.

“You're—” she chokes on her own breath. "What does this mean? Queen as in _the Queen?_ Are you an Earl?" 

He shakes his head. "Luckily, no. My eldest brother, Phillip, he's the Earl. I'm just…" he trails off, pulling at his collar. "Lord Armitage, merely a courtesy title." He swallows, forcing the words out, needing the confession to be complete. "Forty-second in line for the throne."

*~*~*~*~*

Rose needs a minute.

Maybe two or three. She stands and paces for a bit, thinking. He stays seated on the couch and, thankfully, does not interrupt.

She doesn't need to ask why he didn't tell her. They'd only been together a short time. With the way they met, how could he have been certain she hadn't targeted him, to take advantage of him? It must have been ingrained in him from a very young age to be reticent, wary even. 

"Are you… not allowed to date commoners? Or like," she gestures to herself, grimacing. "Foreigners?" 

"I can be with whomever I choose," he says evenly. 

She balls her hands into fists. "What are you doing in New York?"

"Teaching." He swallows. "Art history at NYU. Just started last month." He runs his hands through his hair, pulling slightly on the tips before allowing his hand to drop back down. A lock of red hair comes loose and falls over his right eye. 

Rose nods once, a sharp bounce of her chin. She's ready to end this ridiculous, pointless conversation. 

She comes to stand in front of him. "So am I supposed to curtsey or..?"

He drops his face in his hands. "Rose, _please._ I haven't even properly apologized to you, you have every right to a detailed explanation—"

Pushing him back on the couch, she straddles him before he can say another word. "All the important information, you told me before we left for the church," she says and kisses him. His wordless sounds of shock are muffled by her lips. 

Her hands clamp on to his jaw; her thumbs press little circles next to his ears, to coax his mouth open. She insinuates herself against his teeth, her tongue caressing the inside of his cheeks, licking the taste of Darjeeling right off the roof of his mouth. 

It takes him a few seconds to catch up, but blessedly, he does. His arms come up around her and pull her flush into him, stroking up her hips, under her sweater to caress the warm skin underneath.

She moans into his mouth, sliding forward, slotting her legs around his and pushing her knees as far back into the couch as she can. She grinds down but they’re not close enough. 

“Rose, Rose,” he pleads as she kisses her way back to one ear, sucking and nipping at the lobe. “Let’s—” 

“Shut up, shut up,” she growls between fierce kisses, leaving a hot, wet trail down his neck. “We can talk later, it’s been five years, I need—” 

“But Rose—” His mind and his body are _at war_ with each other. 

“But nothing, _my lord.”_ She pulls back, just far enough that they’re nose to nose, her eyes boring deep into his, two light green rings around black pools of need. “Unless you don’t want me, I need you to get it together. If some part of your body is not inside some part of my body in the next five minutes I’m going to _lose my mind.”_

Something seems to snap into place at her words, because she feels his hands clamp down firmly underneath her ass and then he _stands up._ He’s holding her legs around his waist and walking through the door into his bedroom and she wonders what it was exactly that spurred him into action—if it was the threat, or the mildly dirty talk or—she gulps down a sudden burst of arousal— the _honorific._

Whatever it was, it did the trick. She crosses her ankles behind his back, locks her arms around his neck, and holds on for dear life. 

*~*~*~*~*

Without letting go, Hux lays Rose down on the bed and follows her with his body, careful to keep her soft lips on his, her warm arms around him, her lush thighs in his hands and her hot pussy on his belly. He could die happy now, but he has the feeling that if he did, Rose would kill him and anyway there’s so much more he wants to do. 

Lifting his hands from her hips, he drags the hem of her sweater over her head. It catches on her wrists, her hands still stuck inside the sleeves, and he drops it, leaving her arms raised over her head, elbows pointed to the ceiling. 

She’s not wearing a bra. He groans as he moves his face to her chest, to kiss those generous breasts that are so soft and so sensitive. He rolls one nipple with his tongue, flicking at it gently as he slides his hands slowly back down her body to find the waistband of the yoga pants. 

Pulling them down to her knees he groans again into a rueful laugh. “Rose you _naughty, naughty_ girl.” He doesn’t even recognize his own voice anymore, this playful rumble coming from deep in his chest. “Have you completely abandoned your underthings today?” The yoga pants come off and he tosses them across the room. 

Rose’s response is a whine of pleasure, so Hux moves his mouth to her other breast, sucking and circling her areola, the perfect shade of fawn, just like he remembered.

He runs his hands back up her thighs and back down to her knees as she writhes beneath him. Her hands are still above her head, the pose keeps her breasts full; an offering to him. It's his duty to provide her with pleasure, he thinks, doubling down the pressure from his tongue. 

With a smooth slide of his arms, he spreads her legs and moves one hand to her pussy. Rose releases a series of sobs as he drags his finger through her folds, spreading her, whispering nonsense words of love and praise into her breasts as he continues to suckle and nip at them.

Almost unable to believe she’s allowing him to touch her again, he brings a fingertip to her entrance and dips it in, just the fingertip, in and out a few times, enough to cover his finger with her slick, enough for him to run it up to her clit and circle her there, gentle teasing as she whines and squirms. 

Kissing his way down her belly, feeling her flesh jump and twitch as he brings his mouth to where his fingers are, he feels as if he’s ascended. 

Finally licking at her clit, he groans, relishing the taste of her, feeling pride and arousal in her reactions. _Still got it,_ he thinks as he slides his first finger fully into her hot channel, the intrusion punching a groan from her chest. Her breathing is now coming hard and fast, and he can feel her cunt contracting around just his one finger, so he curls it upwards, pressing lightly, pulls back and does it again, her moans and gasps as he keeps her on the edge of pleasure almost unbearably delightful. He continues to tease her passage with the slow thrusts of his fingers, while holding her clit between his lips like a juicy, swollen berry.

Rose’s head swings back and forth between her raised arms, her eyes pinched shut. “Baby… baby,” she whines, _“please.”_

He takes that as his cue; he sucks her clit deep into his mouth, abrading it with his tongue as he finally slides two fingers into her sex, as deep as they will go. With a wail, Rose elevates off the bed, her neck and back arching with her release as she presses her cunt further into his face, her intimate flesh pulsing and quivering as he soothes her, laps her up, and hums contentedly.

Removing her hands from her sweater sleeves, Rose caresses his hair with one hand while the other wipes tears from her eyes. 

“That was,” she begins. “That was,” she finishes.

He smiles against her labia, flushed a deep magenta, and open like a lily in full bloom just for him. “Anything for you,” he says, kissing his way up her thigh. 

Before he can get much further, Rose pushes him onto his back, rolls over him, and shifts down the bed to straddle him again. Her wet cunt hovers tantalisingly over his thigh as she works the button and zipper of his pants. She pulls them and his underwear down his thighs with a tug. His cock, rock hard, red, and positively _weeping_ for her, bobs between them; she licks her lips and looks up at him. 

“You said there hadn’t been anyone—did you mean—?”

Hux groans. “No one, darling,” he huffs out, his old pet name for her finding its way easily to his lips. “There hasn’t been and there wasn’t—I don’t even have any condoms here.” 

“I’m clean,” she says, taking him in hand, and he twitches with a _zing_ of ego when he sees her hand can’t wrap entirely around him at the base. “And on birth control,” she’s saying, “if—”

“Please, Rosie, darling,” he nods, but she’s already moving on him, dragging his shaft through her wet heat, slicking him up. The warmth and the promise of it is so strong, so insistent that he has to take deep, sharp breaths through his nose so as to maintain his composure and not come all over her that second.

She sinks down on him with a brief slide of flesh on flesh, not quite bottoming out before she rises up again, more of her moisture dripping down his cock before she lowers herself again, taking more of him. Her cries are now loud bleats of pleasure as she impales herself on him and he runs his hands up and down her thighs in soothing encouragement.

When she is fully seated on him she groans deep, sliding her hands under his henley to press her fingertips to his sides, his abdominals, the contours of his chest. Laying her hands flat against his pecs, the henley now rucked up to his armpits, she levers forward and back, snapping her hips as she takes him in, picking up speed, the heels of her hands digging into his ribs. He wants to thrust up into her, but his jeans, not even down to his knees, restrict his range of motion. 

So he lets go. Entirely at her mercy, he permits heart-rending, desperate groans to escape his throat on her every downstroke. Relentless, she rocks her body against him, moaning as she fucks them.

“Armitage—” She’s breathless, flushed red. Her breasts sway over him as she bobs, the slap of skin against skin punctuates each word she forces out between her clenched teeth. “How—can—I—keep—you—” 

“Oh, _oh, oh Rose, love,”_ he grunts. “Never stop, never stop…”

Her cunt is _so hot,_ like volcanic lava pulling him in, and he maneuvers a hand between them to get a knuckle on her clit. He presses insistently, twitching his wrist frantically until she’s coming, blessedly coming on his cock, bearing down now with her passion’s final thrusts. 

With a roar, he joins her, sudden pressure releasing from deep within, flooding his body with endorphins and—and—she falls forward, her breasts half on his skin, half on the henley as she stretches to press her lips to his jaw. 

“Rose, I love you,” he says, before he can stop himself. 

She kisses him again before slowly pulling herself back up. She wipes her eyes with the side of her hand. 

“You said that last time,” she says, sliding off of him with a muffled groan. “It wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.” He’s shaking his head as she swings her legs off the bed and, wobbling, gets to her feet. “I don’t know how to keep you,” she whispers, brushing away more tears, before making her way to the bathroom, and quickly closing the door. 

*~*~*~*~*

He’s ready for her when she returns. 

She pops her head out from behind the bathroom door, a little sheepish, and he waves her over to the bed. He’s lying on his side, stripped down to his shorts, having tossed his jeans and the henley in the laundry. He hands her an old, soft t-shirt of his, which she pulls on. 

She stands awkwardly next to his bed. “Thanks.” She plays with the hem, at her mid-thigh. 

He scoots up until he’s sitting against the headboard and then extends his arm. “C’mere.” Even if he can’t find a way to make this work, even if she doesn’t want anything to do with him any more, the least he can offer her are some post-sex snuggles while he makes his pitch. They certainly can’t hurt.

When he gets her situated next to him, sitting side by side on the bed, he holds his fist in front of her. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”

Instinct has her extending her palm to catch whatever it is he's holding. In that second, he captures her hand and slides the ring he was hiding over her fourth finger, sighing in relief when it slides on easily. 

“Armitage—what is this?” Her voice is rising, with a note of panic as she sees the antique gold band around her finger. Flipping her hand over, she _shrieks_ in alarm as she takes in the eight circular diamonds each nestled within a golden petal, surrounding a large white pearl. 

“Oh this?” He hums. “It’s a ring. I’d like you to hold on to it for me.” He does his best to sound airy and unconcerned. 

Her head jerks back and forth, her eyes going from her hand to his face and back to her hand in the space of a moment. 

“That’s it?” she says, a rough edge to her voice that makes it not sound like a question. With shiver, she tries again, a little peppier this time. “I mean, that’s it?” 

He does his best to suppress a smirk. He knows what it’s like to try and cover disappointment. “That’s it,” he confirms smoothly.

She shakes her head, unsure. “It looks valuable.” She’s holding her hand straight out in front of her. 

“Oh it, is.” Her mouth drops open and her eyebrows hit her hairline so he clarifies. “It belonged to one of Queen Victoria’s granddaughters or… great-nieces, I don’t quite recall.” 

She scrambles to her knees, facing him, still holding her hand out like the ring will suddenly explode, or vanish if she takes her eyes off of it. 

_“What,”_ she screeches. “What? _Armitage,_ I can’t possibly accept this,” she babbles, pushing her hand onto his chest. 

He nods, slowly. “You’re right.” He smiles and circles her wrist with his fingers, holding her to him. “You’re absolutely right, you can’t accept it. I don’t have the ability to give it away.”

Her eyes widen with confusion as she considers what he’s said. “What? Does it not belong to you?”

“Actually,” he says, stuffing the word with all the authority accessible to him of a peer of the realm, “it belongs to the British empire.” He lowers his voice and rubs his thumb along her knuckles. “I’m not supposed to let it out of my sight.” 

“Well then—” she splutters, “why would—what does—how come—”

He puts his free hand on the back of her skull and pulls her into a kiss. “Rose,” he says, afterwards. “You don’t have to forgive me. I don’t deserve a second chance. But if you would grant me the opportunity to earn your trust and maybe, one day, your love, I _promise you_ I will make it worth your while.”

She nods and goes back in for another kiss, sucking his lips into her mouth, possessive and undaunted. Releasing him slowly, allowing his lips to fall from between her teeth, red and wet from her tongue, she nods again. 

“I’d like to see that,” she sighs, and for the first time in five years, his heart feels _free._

Sliding into his arms she cuddles her head under his chin and holds her hand up again, the eight little diamonds winking and reflecting points of glittering light on the pearl set between them. 

Giggling, she turns her face upwards, her hair brushing against his throat. “And most importantly, I get to keep wearing the ring?” she teases, squealing and squirming in his arms as he pinches her ribs and rolls down on top of her. 

"You do," he confirms, squeezing her tight. "Keep wearing it, just so long as you want me to stay."

She hums happily; she locks her arms and legs around him as she murmurs her assent. "We have a bargain, my lord.”

He seals it with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from[ 'The Ship in Port' ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q4HnwxqkH1A)by Radical Face
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments & kudos always greatly appreciated.


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